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in 2010 with funding from 

Lyrasis Members and Sloan Foundation 

One can never become too close to a friend, 

for friendship makes one aware 

of the distance necessary for understanding. 

— Karen Frey 


Established 1901 


SPRING 1977 









Staff Typists 

Staff Artists 

Donna Ray 

Mary Lou Bowersock 

Gwen Schubert 

Chris McCarron 

Debbie Kupiec 

Debbie Grant 


John Boyle 

Richard Pelkofsky 

Sue Crane 

Jeff Russell 

Karen Frey 

Gwen Schubert 

Joe lasello 

Loretta Young 

Kyle Kemp 

Dr. Richard Ziemer 

Michael Kulicke 

THE GLEANER is published during the scholastic year by the students of 
Delaware Valley College of Science and Agriculture of Doylestown, Penna. 
THE GLEANER is a student publication, and the opinions expressed within 
are not necessarily those of THE GLEANER staff or administration. Neither 
the college nor staff will assume responsibility for plagiarism unknowingly 
occurring within. 

Dedication . . . 

In recognition of his enthusiastic support 
and devoted years of service, we would like 
to dedicate this edition of the Gleaner to 
Dr. Joshua Feldstein, President of 
Delaware Valley College. 

Editors' Note . . . 

As editor of the Gleaner I have become aware 
of how many people put their feelings down on 
paper. It doesn't necessarily have to be poetry, but 
just the same they are thoughts. Some people are 
more creative and write with symbolism, but this 
should not overshadow us other writers. There is a 
lot of talent here at D.V.C., more than anyone 
realizes. Unfortunately, most of it is kept hidden or 
shared with just a few. We expect the Gleaner to 
receive some criticism, but the staff has limited 
resources to work with. These resources come from 
the student body, i.e., students who can draw, take 
photographs, and express their feelings on paper. 

Most people feel their work is not good enough 
to be published, but the composer is always the 
toughest critic. We would like to once again make 
the Gleaner a superior literary magazine as it was 
a few years ago, when the Gleaner twice won 
awards for the best publication by a science and 
agriculture college. To achieve this goal, we need 
your support, we need your creativity. 


Ideas in the mind. 

Drifting daydreams 

Lacking time. 


Silent conversation. 

Going nowhere 

Staying behind. 


— Loretta Young 

The man sits quietly on the peaceful hill. 
The poet captures the feelings within him 

revealing them to us on his paper. 
He talks of the peacefulness and the love that 

he finds on his hill 
And he talks of the people below the hill. 
How they live for the sake of life itself. 

— John Boyle 

his name is No Name, 

traveling by himself, 

looking for something 

never found, 

does no good but 

leaves his name of 

No Name where ever he goes. 

had a woman once, 

called her Love, 

but he never found love. 

had a mother, 

called her Trust, 

but trust vanished when 

he was five. 

had some friends, 

called them Companion, 

why was companionship 

never there when needed? 

traveled with a dog for a while, 

called dog Friend, 

Friend bit him on the leg. 

found a nymph one day, 

called her Tramp, 

who gave her love and care, 

something never before found. 

tripped over a goddess, 

called her beauty, 

she was alone and wise, 

No Name's first love. 

Tramp was cast aside, 

No Name vowed to kill man 

to get the name 

of Beauty's Lover. 

beauty was never to be 

for the person of No Name, 

whom Beauty called Inadequate, 

for today he travels alone, 

discarded, and broken, 

looking for a new name. 

— GAJ 


A Dream in the end 

Love shall be my world 

the beginning, the end 

Until I find 

that it shall only be a dream. 

Perfection in man is beyond all 

And yet, I search 

When times come to say none 

I shall know that it is just 

a dream in the end. 

—Karen Frey 


I was old now, seventy-five I think, and still living in 
the fishing town of my youth. The town was right on the 
shore of the ocean and had been torn many times by its 
heavy waves. But we always rebuilt and carried on. Our 
little town always had the smell of the salt and fish 
which sometimes took time to get used to. Even now I 
sometimes hated the smell. 

Now our town was dying. Most of the young adults 
were leaving to find their fame and fortune in the city. 
So, little by little they left our town, and finally there 
were only the middle-aged fishermen, teenagers, chil- 
dren, and of course the elders. 

All of us, that is, the elders, pretty much stuck 
together. We would talk about past happenings and 
tell stories just to keep ourselves busy. Sometimes the 
teenagers or the children would gather around to hear 
one of our stories, and this would make us feel some- 
what important in our dying old town. 

One day a youth, named Dacid, who talked to me 
frequently, asked me to tell him the story of the lost 
island again. I told this story several times of an actual 
experience that happened to me and to some of the 

The story starts with me rowing out to sea in my 
small row boat. I used to do that after a Ing hard day of 
work in order to rest and relax a little. This one day I fell 

asleep and when I awoke it was dark, and I couldn't see 
the shore. The sea and sky were both equally black 
even though it was not yet sunset. 

Using my best knowledge of the sea, I determined 
which way was home and started to row. After a short 
time of rowing I decided to turn around in the boat to 
see where I was heading. That was when I saw a 
brightly lit island right in front of me. Soon I was on the 
island and ready to adventure. I went straight into the 
woods and a small hill until I came across magnificent 

It was a rock. Not just any rock; this rock glowed 
with a bright light that stretched around the entire is- 
land. When I first saw the island, I thought it was a 
break in the dark clouds above that caused it to be lit, 
but now I knew it was this rock that caused the light. 

At first I could barely look at it, and I had to turn 
away. But slowly I got used to its brilliance and began 
to like it. The rock brought a peaceful feel ing I could not 
describe, and I found myself sitting and staring at the 
rock for a long unconscious time. I wanted the rock. It 
gave me some kind of feeling that I couldn't de- 
scribe, but I knew I wanted and liked. But after a while 
of sitting and staring I had this rock. My memory held it 
tight and its beauty became part of me; so much so, 
that I felt I did have it to myself. 

I don't remember howor when but I did end up back 
on the shore near my house. That was the last time that 
experience ever happened to me, but I stil I can see that 
rock today. 

David was inspired by the story and said that he 
wished to see the rock. I told him I had no idea of how to 
get there, but he just said he would do the same thing I 
did to get to the lost island. 

So one day David went out to find the island. After 
he fell asleep as I did, he found himself rowing a 
distance from the island. The island was exactly how I 
said it would be. All around was black in both the sky 
and sea, and David began to become afraid. Because 
of his fear the waves began to rise against him and pull 
him farther from the island. David rowed and rowed but 
culdn't seem to get any closer to the island. He then 
decided that if he made the boat lighter, he could fight 
the waves and get to the island. 

All he had in the boat were food, some money, and 
the anchor which helped lighten the boat, and he got a 
little closer to the island. Then he decided that he 
wouldn't really need the money, so he threw the money 
out and again got closerto the island. Finally he had to 
decide if he needed the food or not. He decided to 
keep the food because he might need it if he got stuck 
on the isiand, and besides it didn't make up that much 
weight. Instead he decided to row as hard as he could 
to get to the island. He started to row faster and faster 
until he noticed he had been moving and should be at 
the island now. When he turned around to see how 
close he was to the island, it was gone. 

Shortly after David came back from his adventure, 
he left our small fishing town to find his fame and 
fortune in the big city. 

— John Boyle 

Wants or Wishes? 

How can I express my wants or wishes? 

The words are there, 

All I need to do is sort them out. 

But they are confused with hate and love. 

Emotions hold them trapped in time. 

Hate must be compared with wants. 

Love must be compared with wishes. 

They still remain confused. 

What are my wishes? 

My wishes are connected with my wants. 

What are my wants? 

My wants are connected with my wishes. 

My body wishes to be held. 
My emotions want attachments. 
But my fears restrict both wants and wishes. 
My ears want to hear endearments, 
While my voice wants to whisper feelings. 
My fears again restrict both wants and wishes. 
Emotions, wants and wishes are all connected. 
I want, I wish to be loved. 

— GES 

Searching through the crowd. 

They want his friendship. 

Companionship, and love. 

But he doesn't see the one that matters, 

She's on the outside, 

Looking out of the corner of her eye, if that. 

Never showing her real feelings. 

Not knowing what to do, 

He walks off the stage, 

(The leading actor, Cupid, didn't show up) 

Feeling ugly and lost, 

Alone and unloved, 

For the love you receive really 

Isn't felt unless 

You love in return. 

— GAJ 


a perfectly clean full moon, 
so precise 

with its teeth bared 

clenched tightly to the night 

but one cloud 
its prisoner, 
the chill air 

rustles the leaves 
the senses 
calling out 

the same wind 

finds its way among 
cracks and old wood 
creaking and moaning, 
the weathered barn has seen 
this face 
many times before, 
deserted . . . 

—Sue Crane 

It is better to be disillusioned, for if we loc 

too closely for the truth, we might find it. 

We are like bottles on the beach 

The tide moves us 

And we go with it 

Why don't we stand fast 

The easy way is to go along 

The bottles move freely from one crest to another 

We drift from one group to the other 

Are the bottles people in disguise 

Is it not freedom that we hold that lets us do this 

The basis of life is freedom 

In ability to make your own choice hinders 

It is the willingness to conform that holds us 

Freedom is cherished, not often kindly welcomed 

We regress 

Once free from the groups 

We regress 

We have our freedom 

But we choose to follow 

Freedom is hard to take 

Is it the lack of security in freedom 

That we dislike 

Can we be secure 

Take all the freedom we want 

Must we . . . 

— Richard Pelkofsky 

Growing takes place, the days pass quickly 

You experience life, you notice special loved ones 

You're thankful. 
Reminiscing of childhood days, knowing they have passed 
but holding on to the pleasures they brought 

You're thankful 
Parents who taught you right from wrong, 

and you try the best you can 
Soon you will be parting, family knows 

soon you will spread your wings 
You're thankful! 
But you know it is time to go, the years have made you strong 
and love and happiness to go along, 
and your life is your own, 
For everyone, for everything you passed on the way 
You're thankful. 

— Sue Crane 

The essential point is that nature is perfect. Every- 
thing living and non-living on earth and off the earth is a 
part of nature. A rock, the ocean, a crystal of snow, a 
celestial body, a tadpole, a human being, a pea — all 
are parts of nature. They all begin, develop to maturity, 
decay and end. They then change into something else. 

All of these things are aspects of nature, and when 
we see them with clarity it is apparent that everything is 
in a state of perfection at each moment. Man performs 
his part within the whole, and the mere fact that he is 
here is a marvellous thing. 

Too often man becomes obsessed with whatever 
problem or difficulty confronts him at a particular mo- 
ment. It is correct for him to try to alleviate the problem, 
but unless the proper perspective is maintained re- 
garding his significance in the universe, he is likely to 
distort the magnitude of his problem and thus make it 
more difficult to solve. 

It seems unlikely to expect that man will ever reach 
a point where there is no struggle involved in his survi- 
val. Though we maytoil, study and hope for a surer and 
easier path to emerge for us to follow, we have thus far 
been unsuccessful in discovering any real alternatives 
to simply living a life dedicated to life, love and work. 

Even though science and technology have dis- 
covered many effective means to a more comfortable, 
secure and safe life for many people, the same basic 
insecurities and uncertainties which are inherent in our 
existence will continue to plague us until we fully 
realize and accept with gratitude and joy our tempor- 
ary stay upon this earth. 

—Michael Kulicke 

Lady, when I'm with you I'm sorry, 

sorry for the love you deserve 

but are denied, 

for the ear I turn away, 

and the care you don't receive. 

Woman, when I'm with you I'm sorry, 
sorry that you are older and more wise, 
that your beauty has captivated me, 
sorry that I am denied your love. 

Girl, when I'm with you I'm sorry, 
that you are young and innocent, 
sorry that you are not ready for me. 

but some day I'll find 

Someone who'll love me, 

and who will get my love in return. 

— GAJ 



Questioning the purpose 

to why. 

Living, just another 

to find 

But only discovering 

more of why then I can hold. 

-Karen Frey 

Love — Found and 

Remember how exciting it used to be to learn some- 
thing new? Or is that an irretrievable period of time 
separated by a calloused gulf of having to learn for a 
grade? Among all the various definitions of love I had 
heard and learned, none so overwhelmed me as one 
stated recently at a Marriage Encounter weekend. 
From books and from other people I had heard and 
read such lofty and ambiguous ideas as these: "Love is 
an emotion"; Love is a chemical reaction between two 
people"; Love is an indescribable feeling"; "Love is 
never having to say you're sorry"; "Love is self- 
sacrifice for the loved object"; and "Love is intimate 
self-disclosure." These definitions made me feel 
philosophical — that I could reason my way around in 
discussing love. All of them made some kind of sense 
to me as various facets of a complex emotion. 

I had also experienced love in ways other than 
definitions: the love of family, of nature, of life, of 
friends, of spouse, and of God. I knew French, German, 
Greek, Hebrew, and some Arabic words for love; but 
these philological variations did not take me beyond a 
philosophical impasse. Equipped with such meager 
linguistic variations of love, I did face the world, its 
beauties, its people, and from those people I singled 
out one to "love and to cherish till death usdo part." But 
I did not know about love what I was to learn about love 
until a recent weekend in March 1977. 

As Adelle and I sat among almost 30 other couples 
on that Marriage Encounter weekend designed to in- 
crease the dynamics of communication of a married 
couple, I heard and wrote the definition given by one of 
the couples leading the session and it overwhelmed 
me: "Love is a decision." 

"Sure," I said to myself; "THAT'S IT!" Why had I not 
thought of it myself? Love is a decision. I decided to 
love others and I loved them. My parents decided to 
love me. God, too, must have decided to love me. Why 
had I grown up without knowing it, proposed to Adelle, 
gotten engaged and married to her without knowing it, 
loved God and others without knowing it, and lived 38 
years without knowing it?! Could I have been deficient 
in a definition of love and still have experienced love? 

As I thought over my decisions in life, I realized how 
unconsciously I did unite love and decision. I loved my 
family, my spouse, and God because I wanted to; other 
people because I chose to do so; and nature and my 
work because I decided to. Yes, the definition "Love is 
a decision" has secretly been my ally and guide for 38 
years, even though my mind was ignorant of that fact. 

Whatever emotion love evokes or does not evoke, if 
it is a decision it is an undisputed fact of life for me — 
for all. Learning this did strip away the ambiguity about 
love and did enhance some of those definitions and my 
own decisions even more. How overwhelmed I felt to 
have been ignorantly shackled all along by what came 
to be for me a definition I have used and now under- 

—Dr. Richard C. Ziemer 


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You can have your slick chick honey 
Dressed up in those sparkle jeans 
Painted lips and fingernails honey 

she's a movie queen 
But when it comes down to real living 

she's a dream. 

You can have your fake chick honey 
Prancing all 'round the floor 

But when it c 
she won 

to real living 







- \ 






I looked at my watch. It was 1 2:45. The meeting had 
lasted much longer than scheduled. It was late and I 
should have started for home. 

I pushed open the door and went down the steps 
into the cold, empty street. It was especially dark that 
night, with clouds covering the moon and stars. Only 
scattered light, from the streetlights that sparsely 
stretched in either direction, pierced the darkness of 
the night. At that moment a frigid gust of wind swept up 
under my coat, making me wish even more that I was in 
my warm bed. I hurriedly made my way through the 
streets, nearly stumbling over trash cans that stood or 
lay strewn on the pavement at the alleys that divided 
the desolate storefronts. I went two blocks and turned 
onto McAfee Street which was even more poorly 
lighted than the one from which I had come. I had 
walked a few more yards when I heard a quick shuffle 
of shoes and rustle of clothing behind me. I whirled 
around to see nothing at first, except a little gleam 
reflected from something shiny, black, and metallic. I 
realized all too soon that it was a gun. 

"Give me your wallet!" I heard an uncertain voice 
say. I did not move. 

"I said, give me your money!! And don't try any- 
thing." The voice seemed even more unsure then be- 
fore. I reached behind me slowly, ready to obey. Sud- 
denly, something caught my eye and momentarily dis- 
tracted me from my own fear, the gun was quivering. 
This person was not shivering with cold as I was, but 

instead, was shaking with fear. This wasn't the cunning 
skill of an experienced thief unfolding before me, but 
that of a boy — a young, frightened kid. 

"Well, what are you waiting for? I — I don't have all 
night!" I took a small step closer into the ring of light 
from the nearest streetlight; he unconsciously did the 

"This is your first time, isn't it?" I asked, not really 
thinking before I spoke. 

"What do you mean by that?" he said, semi- 
defensively, trying to regain his courage in the face of 

Inching closer to the light in order to bring my 
subject into view I said, "This is the first time you've 
ever held up anyone." 

"So what if it is? What's it to you?" he said, sound- 
ing hurt. His voice resembled achild'sthe more I heard 
it. It was not yet as deep as it would eventually be and it 
cracked in the middle of each sentence he spoke. I 
could now faintly see the outline of a face and body. I 
could see he was no more than fifteen or sixteen, if 
even that. 

"It's nothing to me, but it will be a police record to 
you when you get caught." I could see him almost 
clearly now. The sweat showed plainly on his white, 
smooth face. Light brown, curly hair hung gently over 
his forehead, accenting the mild, soft features of his 
"boy-next-door" face. He appeared as a kid too tall for 
his delicate features and slim build. His hands didn't 
seem big enough to hold a gun, let alone to defend 

himself had I resisted physically. He wore a basketball 
team jacket, jeans, and sneakers. He looked as if he 
should have been starting his paper route in a few 
hours. He now fit the voice I had heard crack and pitch 
as he demanded my money only seconds before. 

"A record? Why should you be worried about me 
and whether I have a record or not? Now give me . . ." 

"Because you don't want to rob me, that's why. I 
don't know why you're doing this or just why you think 
you're doing this, but I can tell you don't have your heart 
in it. You don't know what you're getting yourself into. 
You don't even realize that you're pointing your gun at 
the streetlight." He stared down at his gun and then 
back to me with a wildly unknowing, unbelieving ex- 
pression as if everything had finally registered in his 

"Why don't you give me the gun and go home and 
think hard about what sou almost did tonight?" He let 
the gun slip from his grip and darted into the night. I 
picked up the weapon and tossed it into an open trash 
can, and I resumed my journey home. After a few steps 
I stopped, ran back to the scene and fished the gun out 
of the can. I pushed open the revolver and tapped it on 
my palm to retrieve any unspent cartridges. Norhing 
dropped in my hand; the gun had never been loaded. I 
took the firing pin out and dropped it down the sewer 
drain and put the gun back into its deserved nest. I 
looked at my watch. It was 12:48. 

— Kyle Kemp 


These words I know 

Will live and grow 

And will not die 

Like many more before them. 

A lasting sound 

That goes around 

Within your mind 

They pass every now and then. 

And their message is a song you often heard, 
And once it's heard you can't forget a word. 

And by themselves they'll never mean a thing, 
Unless you help me sing. 

And as we sing, our voices will proclaim 
That friendship is the thing that keeps us sane. 

While loneliness and hate may still abide, 
Your friend is by your side. 

When things get rough, 
When you've had enough 
Of all the bad 
This world can offer. 

Just search your mind 
And you will find 
These words are there 
If you need their care. 

And their message is a song you osten heard, 
And once it's heard you can't forget a word. 

And by themselves they'll never mean a thing, 
Unless you help me sing. 

And as we sing, our voices will proclaim 
That friendship is the thing that keeps us sane. 

While loneliness and hate may still abide, 
Your friend is by your side. 

— Joe lasello 

A massive ship with billowed sail 
Traveling the rocky seas, 
Blazing on a stormy trail 
Stirring up forgotten memories. 

— Loretta Young